The Profession of Violence (19 page)

When he stormed out, Charlie attempted to apologize – their friends were sympathetic. Of course they understood about the poor boy and what he had been through in prison. But they all knew that nothing could be quite the same again: Ronnie had destroyed two years of carefully nurtured understanding. This was the first time Reggie showed he knew exactly what was happening. He drove to Vallance Road with an old friend and asked him wearily, ‘What can I do about Ron? He's ruining us. I know we ought to drop him. But how can I? He's my brother and he's mad. Without me God knows what he'll do.'

A fortnight later there was a rally at the billiard hall. It was like old times with all the lights on and the smoke and crates of beer and the Colonel back in his favourite chair opposite the door. There were a few old faces but many more had come from other parts of London. The Colonel had been busier than anyone suspected. He looked delighted with himself. He wore a new blue suit, new spectacles and held a gleaming cutlass. A huge dog slobbered at his feet and growled when anybody came close. Ronnie's two boys were there; he'd never been with them on show like this before. Reggie glared at them when he entered. They grinned back at him. Ronnie smiled.

‘All of the enemy will be at The Hospital Tavern tomorrow night,' said a white-faced boy with spots.

‘All of them?' asked Ronnie.

The whole of Watney Street. They'll be expecting you.'

‘We'll be expecting them. It's time we got our own back for what happened when I went away. Some people think they can forget a thing like that. Some people have been getting soft. I think it's time we had a little war.'

Reggie said nothing.

Next night there was a full-scale bar fight at The Hospital
Tavern. Both gangs were armed with knives and chains and knuckle-dusters. But the twins proved invincible as ever: Reggie discovered something he had nearly forgotten – the strength that surged up in him as he and Ronnie lost themselves in a fight. He had no sense of danger – only of power and a driving impulse to destroy. Nobody could resist them, and when the bar was empty and the last of the Watney Streeters were scrapping in the street, Reggie was standing amid broken chairs and a carpet of smashed glass not realizing the fight was over. He took the microphone the singer used on Saturday nights, turned it full on and bawled through the loudspeakers that if Watney Street wanted any more, the Krays were ready for them. No one answered. He shouted again. But the police cars were screeching up outside and everybody was running. Then Ronnie was beside him, saying they must get away. As they slipped past the crowd, the ambulances had arrived, their blue lights flashing.

At Vallance Road they both went through the old routine of cleaning up at their Aunt May's house next door before saying good night to Violet. Next day the headlines said the East End had had its worst gang fight for years. Neither police nor crime writers seemed to know why.

That night, Reggie's divided life began again. He became thin-faced and his hunted look reappears in photographs. After a few gins he could usually convince himself that everything was as it had always been. He had his car, his friends, his money and his clubs. But however much he drank he never seemed able to bring back the future he and Charlie had planned so carefully together. In the old days he had been able to stand up to Ronnie. Now it was different. Ronnie was wilder; and once he was back with him all his other life seemed pointless and unreal.

In the late fifties London's gangland battlefields were changing. Violence was building up in Paddington and Notting Hill as rival groups horned in to milk the gambling, prostitution and rent rackets of West London. These were not Kray lands. There was no money for them here and from the press exposés of the time it was clear the law would soon be cracking down.

But Ronnie had been thinking about Paddington. It appealed to him. It was ‘interesting', with so many rackets, so many chances of new villainy, that the East End seemed quite tame by comparison. Just past the Edgware Road an authentic whiff of old Chicago hung in the air, with drinking clubs burned out with petrol bombs and tough young men in overcoats shooting at each other from moving cars.

Ronnie was planning an alliance of gangsters to control London – something more grandiose than the timid plans his brothers had had with the Italians. Ronnie's idea was for a warlike federation, using violence to get power. One man would have to be the leader, somebody respected and feared so that his name was law. This was a worthwhile role at last for the admirer of Capone: with Reggie he knew he could do it, but not if they stayed tamely in the East End. One gang in Paddington required help; if the twins gave it, they would have instant allies and the chance to move on to the West End.

The planning and discussions of his great idea occupied the Colonel's energies – deals, secret meetings, pay-offs, promises – and when the time for action came he kept his word, leading his cockneys into several of the bloodthirstiest gang fights West London had ever seen in the summer of 1959. Reggie complained that they were wasting their time, but he was always there when Ronnie needed him.

The Colonel felt his scheme was working; but financially it was a disaster. By alienating all those business-minded gangsters the Krays relied on for their income, Ronnie destroyed three years' careful work in as many months. Certainly they had no chance now of the neat slice of Mayfair gambling they had hoped for. The billiard hall closed down; the takings from The Double R and the spieler in Wellington Way barely met Ronnie's extravagances. The Colonel's dreams of empire were expensive. The new gang needed to be paid, but Reggie's richer clients stayed clear now, thanks to the twins' new reputation.

Ronnie had his own ways now of making money. Often he just asked for it – a loan, a contribution, an investment – and since people were frightened of him, he invariably received. A publican, a shopkeeper, an illegal bookmaker – anybody who was vulnerable was likely to be tapped for £50 or £100 to pay for his evening out. One of his favourite methods was to ‘pawn' his big gold watch with a publican for £200 and a week later to ask for the watch back. No one ever had the nerve to refuse him or demand repayment. This suited Ronnie as a means of money-grabbing; it kept life simple and flattered his vanity. But there were better ways of making money.

The twins knew all about capitalizing on violence: in the past they had peddled it like any other commodity. This had been Reggie's speciality. If someone needed hurting or protecting, if a business had to be wrecked or a club destroyed, Reggie had arranged the details like a professional providing any normal service. The twins invariably gave value for money.

Ronnie gave his clients something more – excitement. Some businessmen enjoyed sharing the twins' wildness. Ronnie cashed in on this and in the process some of these action-loving friends acted extremely stupidly.

Perhaps the stupidest of all was a man called Daniel Shay. In the summer of 1959 he owned his own car business and was living in an expensive flat in Edgware. He was not particularly honest. According to evidence later produced in court, he already had thirteen convictions for various types of fraud. But he was not a dangerous man. Quite the reverse. Everyone who knew him found him charming, perhaps a little too easy to do business with, and rather kind. He lived well, gambled, but not to excess, and was devoted to his wife. Then he met Ronnie Kray and began boasting of his friendship with the twins.

This suited Ronnie. He never minded businessmen using his ‘name' provided they paid for the privilege; Shay paid. On several occasions Ronnie borrowed from him and the money never seemed to be returned. Then Shay began to change. This friend of the twins began believing he could act as they did. By then Ronnie was earning a considerable income each week from shopkeepers he ‘protected'. At the beginning of February 1960, kindly Mr Shay did something out of character.

At the Hampstead end of the Finchley Road was a small shop called Swiss Travel Goods run by a Pole called Murray Podro. Shay had already met him playing cards, and when he called at the shop and chose a briefcase, leaving his card and saying he would pay later, Podro permitted him to take it. A few days later Shay returned, bringing the twins and telling Mr Podro that he had taken a ‘diabolical liberty' overcharging him for the briefcase. He grabbed him, hit him and demanded £100, otherwise he would be ‘cut to pieces'.

It was a bungling attempt. Shay was no gangster, and as soon as he left the shop Podro telephoned the police. Two days later Shay returned to collect his money. He brought Reggie with him; as they entered the shop they walked straight into the police.

At the Old Bailey Shay was romantically described as ‘running a Chicago-style protection racket' and sentenced to three years' imprisonment. Reggie got eighteen months. Ronnie was never mentioned.

And now with Reggie stuck in Wandsworth Gaol and Ronnie in command, the rampage started. The Double R lost money; the Firm was finally his private army; Fort Vallance was stocked up with arms. Nothing else mattered except the ‘little wars'. The Colonel was convinced that he would soon rule London through the rattle of machine-guns and the blood of rivals flowing in the streets. He was quite happy. Reggie was safe behind bars; no women could reach him there. Charlie did not worry him. No one interfered with the strange war game he acted out, as he gathered information, planned his next moves and prepared to lead his fighting men to battle. He lived at home with Violet and had all he needed. Life would have continued from one battle to the next but for what occurred that autumn. Ronnie met Peter Rachman.

Rachman was not yet notorious as the extortionate West London landlord making his unsavoury fortune from rack-rented tenants. But he was stuffed with money and was vulnerable. This made him interesting to Ronnie, who had heard about him in Paddington. He tried to meet him. Rachman avoided him, but finally through Dickie Morgan, who worked for Rachman, Ronnie and several friends gate-crashed a party Rachman was giving at the old Latin Quarter Club in Soho.

It was a memorable occasion. Rachman had begun the evening in high spirits; everyone was laughing at his table. When Ronnie entered, Rachman and his girls tried to ignore him. Ronnie and his friends wore dinner-jackets, sat at a table and simply stared at Rachman. None of them spoke, or drank. Slowly the conversation died. When Peter Rachman went downstairs there was a scuffle by the door. Several Kray men joined in. Ronnie Kray yawned, said nothing and waited as the sound of fighting floated up the stairs. Then Dickie Morgan came up to him, grinning, and whispered in his ear. Ronnie nodded and stumped from the room.

Downstairs a Rolls was waiting, Rachman at the wheel. As Ronnie came from the club Rachman opened the door and asked where he was going. ‘Vallance Road,' he grunted, and heaved himself in beside Rachman. He had his meeting.

There were no polite preliminaries as the Colonel delivered his terms: £5,000 immediately. Otherwise his men would be in Notting Hill every night of the week and would drive Rachman's rent-enforcers off the streets. Rachman should know that he could put him out of business in a month.

At Vallance Road Rachman was invited in to meet Violet and afterwards to discuss things over tea in the upstairs sitting-room. Rachman had considerable charm, thanked Violet for the tea, called Ronnie by his first name and made no difficulties, when his host demanded an initial downpayment. He had £250 on him in cash, and wrote a cheque for £1,000. They parted on good terms. Next morning the cheque bounced. When Ronnie heard he drew a Luger from the armoury and went in search of Rachman; he had vanished.

Trouble began in Notting Hill exactly as the Colonel prophesied. Rachman's rent-collectors were methodically beaten up. Rachman's thugs faced fiercer thugs. Rachman's whole empire, which depended on intimidation of tenants, faced its one real time of crisis.

For Peter Rachman had made the mistake of underestimating Ronnie, thinking he would never have the skill or organization to upset his business. Now that Ronnie proved he had, something needed to be done. Rachman was a clever man. One thing he knew about was intimidation; and he knew that the more he tried to buy off Ronnie Kray, the more he would have to pay him later. Much money was at stake – rich influential people's money as well as his own. He had no intention of risking it for Ronnie Kray. What he needed was something big to offer Ronnie as a final payment to divert him from Notting Hill for good. Someone suggested Esmeralda's Barn.

On a fine autumn evening in 1960 a man called Stefan de Faye walked along Kensington Gore for an appointment with a retired naval commander at an address behind the Royal Albert Hall. De Faye was a tall, excitable man and was in something of a state: he knew that in the next hour or so he would have to make one of the most uncomfortable decisions of his life.

He was a club-owner, moderately rich, entirely honest and extremely smart. In his youth he had written a book entitled
Profitable Bar Management
and had recently secured control of the most promising gaming club in London. It was the sort of chance that comes once in a lifetime; being shrewd, Stefan de Faye had done his best to keep it to himself – not too successfully. Something had leaked out; there had been threats. Finally an invitation came from a certain ex-naval commander. De Faye knew all about him. He was a front man for a number of figures in the underworld. If he refused his invitation there would be less polite approaches later.

Had de Faye been a gangster or a gambler he might have risked this; as he was neither he continued walking down Kensington Gore until he found the address he wanted. He rang the bell.

The commander, a smiling gentleman with bright false teeth, answered the door and led de Faye into a long, brown sitting-room. Three men were waiting.

‘Mr de Faye,' said the commander, ‘my good friend, Leslie Payne.'